


Un Malentendu

by crookedbow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Ballet Sherlock, Fluff, M/M, Rugby John, Teenlock, balletlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedbow/pseuds/crookedbow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John waiting for him at the end of practice . . . John smiling in the audience at recitals . . . his hands steady and warm on Sherlock’s hips when he needed help with balancing . . . John telling his oafish rugby friends, “It’s not like that. We’re just mates, that’s all” when they started taunting him playfully about his crush on the “bloke in tights”."</p><p>The balletlock mutual misunderstanding trope fic you never knew you wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un Malentendu

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I've been dying to write something of the balletlock variety for ages. I've got a bit of a longer story in mind but this idea wouldn't leave me alone. So here's a fluffy little one-shot in the meantime as I wrestle my larger projects.

_Fouetté. Fouetté. Fouetté._

Sherlock whipped his head around to face the mirror for what felt like the millionth time, arms flowing from fifth to fourth to fifth again. Back straight, chin up, leg unwavering. Repetitive, but if he focused on getting it perfect every time then maybe he could drown everything else out.

He was playing Vivaldi full blast in his mind palace. As of late he had only been listening to Tchaikovsky in preparation of the Swan Lake audition this summer, but with Tchaikovsky came too many unwanted memories. John waiting for him at the end of practice . . . John smiling in the audience at recitals . . . his hands steady and warm on Sherlock’s hips when he needed help with balancing . . . John telling his oafish rugby friends, “ _It’s not like that. We’re just mates, that’s all”_ when they started taunting him playfully about his crush on the “bloke in tights”.

Sherlock felt himself start slipping and stopped abruptly, frowning in annoyance at his reflection.

“I know you’re out there,” he called through the two way mirror.

John opened the studio door looking sheepish. “Hey, I waited for you after practice but I figured you must have gotten hung up here.” He smiled and a moment later, incredulously, “How’d you deduce a mirror?”

Sherlock ignored him in favor of plié-ing and launching into another round of fouettés. Truth be told, he had seen John walk in through the front of the school from the wall of windows in the back of the studio and since then had been calling out every few minutes knowing he’d get lucky eventually.

“What’s wrong?” John frowned.

“Nothing.” _Fouetté_. “Is.” _Fouetté_. “Wrong.” _Fouetté_.

He wandered slowly to the front, arms crossed with an amused expression. “Well, you’re turning quite aggressively.”

Sherlock gave an exasperated huff and nearly toppled over for his trouble. He bent down and launched off again. Vivaldi and Tchaikovsky were getting tangled together in his head.

“Seriously, Sherlock, what’s–”

“Nothing.” He puffed in between turns, glaring daggers at the mirror. “Believe me, if something were wrong I would let you know. Seeing as we’re such good _mates_ and all.”

Oh, now he had done it. Idiot, _idiot._ He wasn’t even mad at John, he was mad at himself for allowing the hope that maybe John might just like him too . . . . But that was beyond stupid.

“What? Sherlock–” John looked completely befuddled until, “Oh. Oh, my God. You heard me talking to the team today.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated noise. “Forget I said anything.” Cheeks flushing further from embarrassment rather than excursion.

“Why would–” Another revelation seemed to strike him. _Yes,_ Sherlock though peevishly, _Two plus two equals four, I’m in love with you. How could you have not known this?_

“Sherlock,” He began eyes wide and then Sherlock, who had been too busy gauging John’s reaction to spot, lost his balance and rolled over on his ankle.

John reached out as if to catch him but was too far away, Sherlock landed on his knees and hands. Privately he thought it better to bruise than to have John catch him like a swooning maiden.

He rolled over and felt pain shoot up his leg and humiliation surge. “Fucking, fuck.” He bit out angrily.

“Eloquent.” John commented already untying his shoe, calloused hands working swiftly on the intricate ribbons.

Sherlock looked away quickly before his brain started waxing poetry. “I’m fine, I just slipped.” He said pulling away. Outside the sun was setting, casting long shadows and turning everything shades of orange. The polished floors of the studio looked as though they had caught fire.

“You’re ankle is swollen, you need ice.”

“Thank you for clearing that up, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock quipped sardonically.

John smirked up at him, looking frankly angelic with his hair turned golden in the light. “Not a doctor yet.”

 _Jesus, God,_ Sherlock thought stupidly, staring back. John must have seen something show on his face because he blushed and looked back down.

After a moment John rose to his knees, extended his arms and said, “Alright, then, come on.”

“What?” Sherlock said startled.

John raised his eyebrows. “You aren’t going to walk on that foot so I’m going to carry you like this. Unless you’d prefer piggy back.”

Sherlock batted his hands away, eyes wide. “No, absolutely not.” And then petulantly, in response to John’s exasperated sigh, “Besides, what would your rugby team think of that?”

John stared at him before settling back down in front of him. Slowly, he said, “Sherlock, why do you think I said that to them?”

“Well,” Sherlock began looking at the ground not bothering to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Obviously you just think of us as friends but not only that, your team knows you’re bisexual otherwise you would’ve used your hetero-facade to help prove your point and been more defensive. When accused of having crushes in the past you’ve always responded in a relaxed and vague way because you’re not one to instigate an argument about your personal life. However, this time, you reacted sternly and concisely so that must mean you _really_ don’t want anyone to have the wrong idea about us. From that, one could draw that either you have your eyes on someone else or that you just find the idea of dating me particularly repulsive.” He took a deep breath and looked up.

John was staring at him with a strangely stricken expression. “Sherlock . . . nearly everything you just said is completely wrong.”

And Sherlock, heart pounding in his chest, remarked, “Well, there’s a first.”

“You complete idiot.” John let out a strangled laugh and leaned in to kiss Sherlock full on the mouth.

Sherlock made an embarrassingly high-pitched surprised noise that turned into one of delight as John cupped his face gently in his palm and slid a hand into his hair. Sherlock in turn gripped John’s shoulders, feeling the taut muscles there. He was warm and solid and _God_ Sherlock was starting to understand why other teenagers were so hung up on the whole kissing thing.

He probably wasn’t doing the best job at reciprocating appropriately when he was smiling so widely but all he could think was, _This is happening, this is really happening. I am kissing John Watson. John Watson is kissing_ me.

John pushed him down and Sherlock tugged at him to follow. He kissed Sherlock into the sun warmed floor, without a doubt getting the powder from the dancers’ shoes into his hair.

Breathing heavily, John pulled back to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s. His hair was ruffled into a golden halo, cheeks flushed, eyes dilated. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, _you are so gorgeous._

“I’m so stupid.” John huffed, pressing another kiss onto his lips, grinning. “I thought you weren’t interested in any of that with me.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know, I just figured you knew already with your deductions and all that I was completely gone on you, God knows the guys figured it out with less. I thought that if you had wanted to, you would have already made a move.”

“I thought you knew that I liked you!” Sherlock said in outrage. “How could you not? I was so obvious; I’ve been pining for a year and a half!”

John laughed softly and stroked his cheek. “We’re so dumb.”

“Speak for yourself; you could’ve dropped a bit of a hint, at leas–” The sentiment was smothered by John leaning in to kiss him again and that was fine by Sherlock.

After several long seconds (minutes, hours, days? Who cared) John pulled back again, “Your ankle.”

Sherlock groaned in annoyance. “It won’t kill me to wait a while longer, and then you can carry me. Continue, please.”

John rolled his eyes but conceded, sucking on the pulse point on Sherlock’s neck, causing Sherlock to let out a breathy, “ _John,”_

The task of urging more of these sounds out of Sherlock kept John busy for a while until he drew back once more, glancing toward the mirror, “How do we know that no one’s watching?”

Sherlock didn’t even consider telling John that they couldn’t. He simply glanced over at the mirror and said in a confident tone, “No one’s there.”

John didn’t argue.

***

“I can’t believe you forgot your shoes again.”

“For the thousandth time, I’m sorry! Not everyone wears their shoes like a pungent necklace.”

Greg looked down at the muddy cleats around his neck and frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Molly sighed and fought a smile. She got on her tip toes and pecked his lips. “I mean, it’s disgusting.” She called over her shoulder as she continued down the hall.

Greg ran a hand through his hair and swore quietly, grinning, before jogging after her.

“It’s better than forgetting them every day.” He said when he finally caught up.

Staring through the glass with wide-eyes, Molly fumbled to reach out and grasped Greg’s shoulder, “Oh my God, oh my God.” She whispered.

“Wha–” He broke off at the sight of two blokes making out on the studio floor. Not just two blokes though . . . .

“Oh. Oh my God.” He turned to Molly in shock.

Her face broke out into a brilliant grin and she gave a little excited hop. “Finally!”

Greg laughed loudly and threw up a fist. “Jesus, they finally got together. Anderson owes me money; he thought it would never happen.”

“I’m so happy for them.”

“You s’pose they’ll stop telling us how miserable in love they are now that they can tell each other?”

Molly considered it and then, linking her arm in his and deciding to abandon her ballet shoes, she responded while leading them back down the hall, “I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

**Author's Note:**

> A fouetté is a type of turn in dance where the performer extends and retracts their leg while spinning; it's pretty badass.
> 
> Pliés are a sort of squat used mostly to prepare for other dance moves, like turns. They're done in different legs positions depending on the step to follow; in this case, Sherlock is in fourth position.
> 
> The title (Un Malentendu), I'm embarrassed to say, is just the French translation of "A Misunderstanding". Yeah, that's how bad I am with titles.


End file.
